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Surprises.
She wasn’t a fan of them, to put it lightly. Mostly because they stole her means of control. Her reaction to them was fear. And in the majority, the natural response to surprise, or horror, as she considered it, was physical.
It ached the tendons in her neck.
It tensed her calf muscles so hard they cramped.
It even once induced a pressure so intense in her nose that blood gushed from it, all the way down to her neck into the crack of her chest. All caused by the short belief that she was in danger, no matter if it was a tickle or a room full of family and friends roaring “Happy Birthday”. Shock wasn’t a necessary precursor to joy.
Áine bent to open the fridge again when the word surprise brought to mind an Anthropology report she’d come across in her first year of college. It stood out because of how much shedetested the term ‘unchristianised’ being used to describe the natives of Ifalik Atoll, (last estimated population; 561).
And yes, she could give grace to the report being written in the early 1900s, but of all the things those anthropologists, with bellies held in by braces, could have used to describe people doused in culture, they settled on that; them being ‘un-fucking-christianised.’
The audacity.
An audacity that maddened her more when she dived into Ifalik culture and learned something beautifully and exclusively associated with their language. They described the word surprise in two separate ways;
Rus—the word they use to distinguish the negative Áine was so very used to.
AndKer—a nice surprise. The exact feeling now vibrating her skin because she found as the countdown to Fionn’s departure ticked away, and not in a wholly terrifying way, he appeared tofancyher.
He had mentioned similar all those years ago in an undercurrent of other words and touches, but she knew then and she knew now, when it came to Fionn’s feelings for her, the surprise of discovering that could only be considered good. And now she really didn’t want the night to end.
“You’re hardly hungry again?” he called from behind with blatant bemusement pitching his homely tone.
She smiled into the packed fridge. Then out of it, she slid the top tray of clingfilmed sandwiches separately consisting of ham, salad and egg mayo. “Hardly. No, we need to get these out of the fridge for the Helping the Homeless volunteers. He’ll be here soon, and I don’t want to keep the guy waiting with the rain coming down.”
Swivelling to Fionn on the balls of her feet with a pep she wasn’t used to, she passed the tray into his unprepared handsbefore twisting back in for the second one. This minor act made her wonder if she had a deficiency in general enthusiasm, like it was a supplement she could opt in for and take every morning.
“It’s great that ye’ do this and that there’s a group, too,” he said, surely coming back to himself from another wandering thought. “I wish everyone was this giving. Better things might have happened for both of us if that was the case.”
By better things, did he mean the worse in comparison was her working in a hole of a B&B for a pittance?
Scrubbing the second of sadness off her creased mouth, she emerged with the other tray and a false smile that she worried he’d know was a lie.
Fionn’s eyes slit, and his head tilted with possible concern. Possible because she was working off the information of physical characteristics six years out of date. But rather than give him time to say what touched his thoughts, in classic Áine fashion, she chose to take from the conversation the element of debate.
Áine’s view of charity was grossly twisted and a common talking point, although not one she necessarily enjoyed for how much it triggered extreme do-gooders and her anxiety. But her unabating soul was much too linked to her mouth to ever stop the words from coming out.
Morality being the underlying theme of these conversations meant they mainly occurred around the set of an after-party where people were too free with their lines of cocaine and xenophobia.
Interested to hear Fionn’s view, she opened the dialogue how she always did: “Ah yes, but are they giving, the volunteers, because they desire self-gratification or because,” her head bobbed from side to side as if she was selecting the fitting words from her brain, “because they’re truly selfless? Essentially—and stay with me on this one—isn’t there an element of delight to thetortures of others? You know, part-time Schadenfreude for part-time volunteers?”
Áine acknowledged she was being overdramatic for no one’s sake. She occasionally did that on purpose to spite her mother, who, present or not, the satisfaction still hummed all of Áine’s blood and allowed her to access that natural high she constantly seemed to be chasing.
“Can’t it be both?” he asked, a lax to his stature reprising that made her think this question was a loaded one.
She smirked. “What? Can’t it be both delightful and torturous to feed the poor?”
“No!” He tutted with the demeanour of an old lad. “The other part. Can’t they be selfless and be allowed to feel gratification for their efforts? If you see it from the taker’s perspective, which I’m sure you can given you were poor—”
“Haw. Haw.”
“—it can almost be seen as a good thing.”
Her head tilted when looking him over.
If I asked him to fuck me would he press my face against the cold stainless steel of the worktop?
